All Lives End
by mycsherly
Summary: Mycroft's last moments. What does he think of? Warning - OOC sherlock and mycroft. sad ending


Mycroft Holmes had been called a great many things.

_Manipulative, vile, ruthless, cunning._

He had been accused of even more.

_Forgery, fraud, felony, infringement, kidnapping, smuggling, murder._

But one thing no man had ever accused him of, was NOT taking care of his brother.

Because he had, in every manner possible. Of course Sherlock would say that he was a 'rubbish big brother' and that Sherlock would rather not have a brother than have Mycroft, but Mycroft comforted himself by remembering the fourteen year old who had thought the world of him.

To be quite honest, it was all his father's fault. He had taken Mycroft aside, on the day Sherlock was born and had told him that it would be his responsibility to take care of his little brother, before he left abruptly to meet his new-born son. Somehow, Mycroft mused, he didn't think father had thought Mycroft would take the responsibility so seriously.

However, Mycroft did take it seriously. So seriously in fact, that even now, as he approached his forties, the only human being whose well-being, safety, comfort and happiness he concerned himself with, was his baby brother.

Because every time Sherlock had cried out as a child, Mycroft had always been the first one there, his mere presence calming Sherlock down. As Sherlock grew older, Mycroft protected him from bullies, nasty teachers, disgusting men, and everything else that could possibly register as a threat.

Mycroft had covered for Sherlock several times.

_'Mycroft I broke the vase!' Mycroft, I accidentally poured copper sulphate on mummy's favorite tea set! Mycroft help! I might have accidentally poured ink on fathers files!'_

Snorting Mycroft couldn't believe his luck. To have a brother like Sherlock . . . . . but Mycroft had covered for Sherlock every single time, barely bothering about the consequences it would have on him, because all he cared about was keeping his little brother safe and happy.

Mycroft had lost count of the several times he had indulged Sherlock's weird cravings

_Come on Mycroft! Let's go and examine puddles in the rain! Come on Mycroft! I wanna see what happens when I put an earthworm in ice cream! Mycroft? Do you think you could show me how to pick locks? _

Mycroft couldn't help but shake his head in amusement as he recalled the horror of the next few weeks after Sherlock's last request. Every room in the house had been vandalised by Sherlock's nimble fingers and a hair pin. The first request on the other hand, had taught Mycroft a very valuable lesson- never go anywhere without an umbrella. Yet despite the utter ridiculousness of his demands, Mycroft had always, _always_, indulged every single one of them.

But all that came crashing down once they moved to London. Mycroft became busy at office as Sherlock moved to university. Without the protective and shielding presence of his big brother, Sherlock had fallen into the wrong company. Mycroft came to see his brother after two months, only to be met with the sight of a junkie.

Mycroft had immediately take Sherlock in. He had wiped Sherlock's mouth and cleaned up after him after Sherlock vomited due to withdrawal symptoms, cleaned his brother, taken weeks from work to take care of Sherlock, without having to inform his parents. Then one day, Sherlock ran and got high again. Mycroft forgave the first few times but when this became a habit, Mycroft finally realised that Sherlock needed professional help and had forced him into rehab.

The drastic action had saved Sherlock life and mind. It had destroyed their relationship.

Up until then, Mycroft had always been under the impression that Sherlock tolerated him, barely. After rehab, Sherlock openly confessed his hatred towards Mycroft. He had tried to ignore the sharp pain that went through him when he heard Sherlock's harsh words, but unfortunately, somewhere along the road, Mycroft had begun to care about his impish little brother with his floppy hair. And no matter how much he denied it, Sherlock's words hurt.

Mycroft had never told his mother about the rehab, so when Sherlock once again blamed Mycroft for making his life hell, and mother looked at him disapprovingly, he did what he had done since childhood.

He took the blame and covered for Sherlock, protecting him from their mother's ire.

So, Mycroft thought distantly, his current circumstance shouldn't have come as a shock to him. In fact, he was pretty sure that he had been prepared for this eventuality all along. When Sherlock had disappeared on a case once again, Mycroft hadn't really bothered. But when he was told the 'case' in fact was _Moriarty's _he had dropped everything and, in a moment of impulsiveness, had followed Sherlock. Of course, thanks to his involvement Moriarty's network had finally disintegrated but they were now standing in a room, facing the business end of Moriarty's gun as he pointed it at Sherlock.

John had his gun pointed at the vile man of course, but he didn't dare shoot- reflexes were such tedious things. Everyone in the room (John, Sherlock, Moriarty and Mycroft) knew that Moriarty was dangerously close to pulling the trigger, and the minute he would, John would kill him. But that didn't serve any purpose. Sherlock's death was not something Mycroft and John wanted.

Of course, Mycroft's brilliant brain had already come up with a solution. A painful solution, that would cost the world a great deal, but the only one he would allow happening tonight.

Despite the knowledge, jumping in front of a bullet still hurt.

Behind him, he could hear Sherlock yell, he heard another bullet and saw Moriarty crumple, finally dead by the good doctors' bullet.

The good doctor.

Meeting John Watson was the best thing that had happened to his brother. Despite his marriage and child, John was, and would always, be there for Sherlock and this thought comforted him, as he gazed down at the blood that was slowly staining his waistcoat.

Mycroft fell to his knees, the pain finally registering.

He felt someone drop to the floor next to him and turned to see Sherlock, on his knees, looking at Mycroft's wound in horror.

"Don't be scared Sherlock, you're going to be fine," Mycroft said, trying to keep the pain out of his voice. Apparently it didn't work as Sherlock looked at him, even more terrified than before. Now however, he looked hysterical too.

"Don't be scared? Jesus Mycroft, you're shot! And you are still comforting me? I am the one who should be comforting you! Hell that bullet wasnt even meant for you!" Sherlock said hysterically, pressing against Mycroft's injury to stop the blood flow. There were a number of things, Mycroft thought about telling Sherlock- _don't swear, blasphemy will only have mother cuff you on the head, stop being so loud it's hurting my head, and its all part of being a big brother, _but he could say none of this, now was not the time.

"No, it was meant for you. Surely this is a better alternative?" Mycroft gasped, the pain unbearable. He closed his eyes, surely death was a better alternative to this pain?

"NO! Mycroft don't you dare close your eyes! Mycroft please, look at me!" Sherlock demanded panic colouring his voice.

Mycroft sighed and opened his eyes, he never had been able to deny Sherlock.

"Sherlock, we both know there's no way I can survive this. Let me go dear brother, the pain's too much. Please." Mycroft begged, his voice sounding weak to his own ears.

"I can't, I can't My. I need you please, don't go big brother, I need you!" Sherlock choked his face streaming with tears,"The ambulance is on its way and John's helping. He'll be fine wont he John? John? John!?" Sherlock yelled staring at his friend, but the doctor didn't reply, working silently.

"Why aren't you saying anything? John come on, tell Mycroft he's going to be fine!" Sherlock said now supporting Mycroft's limp body completely," Why aren't you saying anything?"

"Make a deduction, Sherlock. There's a man bleeding on the floor with a shot to his chest, and the only doctor in the room has gone very quiet. You know what that means." Mycroft panted, trying to stay above the pain.

"No, no, no! You can't, you just _can't_ you hear me?!" Sherlock declared denial in every line of his face.

"I love you little brother. Remember that please? Everything I ever did was to keep you safe and happy. I'm so sorry for everything I might have done that hurt you." Mycroft's voice cracked because of the pain. Gritting his teeth against it, he looked at John," John, as one last request, take care of my brother for me will you? Please."

"I will, always." John said crying as he tried to do anything, everything he could to stave off the inevitable.

" Mycroft, brother please. You've never denied me anything, please don't deny me this, _please_." Sherlock wept, his body shaking with grief.

The corner of Mycroft's mouth twitched," You always have been very spoilt."

"I love you, brother. So much. I'm so sorry for everything I've put you through." Sherlock was sobbing now.

"I love you too Sherlock, always have and always will. Forever and always." Mycroft replied, a peaceful smile on his face.

He looked at Sherlock, who was now hovering exactly above him, supporting Mycroft with tears streaming down his face, pain and regret in his eyes, and thought of the little bright-eyed four-year old he had been.

_"But I don't want to go on the monkey bars, my. What if I slip?" Sherlock said, clutching an eleven year old Mycroft's trousers._

_"Then I'll catch you, Sherlock. I wont ever let you fall and get hurt." Mycroft promised._

_"Promise you'll never, ever, let me fall down and get hurt? That you'll always have my back?" Sherlock asked looking at his big brother with wide blue eyes. _

_"I promise. Forever and always."_

Mycroft closed his eyes.

Forever and always indeed.


End file.
